Sollicitus
by Some-of-us-live
Summary: Everyone likes the outsides. The outsides are what everyone likes to see. The cover up the interior, the ugly things that happen inside. She could see the old ghosts there, lurking behind the lacy curtains. She could've sworn she saw a 5 year old version of herself peeking out the window at her. AU. Contains an OC. R&R, flames are used to warm my toes.
1. Chapter 1

Darcy knew she was worthless. He told her so. It's written all over her body…_**worthless.**_ It was written down her arms, down her legs, all over her body. She could see it, right in front of her face.

"Sit still, Darcy!" her social worker, Andrea, chastised as she sat in the Child Services Office. The rough, scratchy chair rubbed against her bare legs, uncomfortably making her legs itch and turn red. Her muscles ached from sitting still for so long. Andrea had said to sit _still._ Head high, straight back, ankles crossed. Darcy fidgeted, getting a disapproving glare thrown her way from across Andrea's desk.

Darcy wanted to scream. Where was this person, this new foster parent she was assigned to? Were they a married couple? Were they a single person? If they were a single person, were they a he or she? Were they nice or mean? Couldn't they wait until _after_ school?

"Miss Andrea?" she asked, waiting quietly before being acknowledged that she could speak. An annoyed look ran across Andrea's face before nodding that Darcy could speak.

"Do you know when my foster parents will be here?" she asked, looking meekly at Andrea before averting her eyes.

"He will be here when he gets here, Darcy. Don't be impatient, it doesn't look good on a lady," Andrea said, giving a look that suggested she was a heathen.

"Yes, ma'am, of course, Miss Andrea," Darcy said quickly, not wanting to anger the woman. Finding no place to settle her wandering eyes on, she looked down at her plain, black oxfords, part of her school uniform. She followed the patterns of the stitches with her eyes.

_"Does everything have stitches?"_ Darcy thought, looking at her immaculate uniform, following the threads across the pleated skirt.

_*A definition inside her head*_

_ Stitch: noun. One complete movement of a threaded needle through a fabric or material such as to leave behind it a single loop or portion of thread, as in sewing, embroidery, or the surgical closing of wounds._

_ "I wonder if I need any metaphorical stitches," _she mused, debating with herself on whether any metaphorical stitches would help her in this situation.

She was startled from her internal debate when she saw two people in the doorway. The man was tall and handsome, dressed professionally in a suit, though Darcy spied rainbow stripes on his socks. Though it seemed he was trying to hide it, Darcy's keen eyes sought out the FBI badge he wore in the waist of his trousers. The woman, however, was beautiful, impeccably dressed. The woman's beauty seemed to radiate, her striking blue eyes putting the sky on a beautiful day to shame.

"Hi, Miss Andrea Breer? I'm special Agent Seeley Booth, this is my partner, Dr. Temperance Bre…" he started, before being cut off by the woman.

"Dr. Temperance Brennan, of the Jeffersonian Institute," she said, shaking Andrea's hand. Though Special Agent Booth smiled good-naturedly at Dr. Brennan's inturruptance, he still said, quietly, "Bones, you didn't have to interrupt me."

"Sorry," she whispered, leaning towards him before Andrea cleared her throat.

"Darcy, please, have some manners!" Andrea declared, sternly giving Darcy a glare that reminded her of the phrase, "If looks could kill."

Darcy stood and said hurriedly, "Hello, my name is Darcy St. Vincent, it is very nice to meet you, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan," she stated, holding out her hand for both of them to shake. But, instead of sitting down, she moved to the side and motioned that either of them could take her seat.

Andrea sat back down behind her desk, shuffling through some paperwork. She finally found the documents she needed for Darcy's new home, sorting through them before giving a sheet to Agent Booth.

"Agent Booth," she stated, "Since this is your _first_ foster child, I feel I should let you know a few things about our children here. Though not _all_ of them are heathens, quite a few of them are, so you might want to be wary of any important or personal belongings. Also, Darcy gets a small allowance every month, which you can control if she does or does not behave. Is that clear?"

He smiled, quite charmingly, at Andrea, and said, "Yes, I understand, Miss Breer," before signing the papers that made Darcy St. Vincent his first foster child.

Darcy St. Vincent was now the foster child of Agent Seeley Booth.

Darcy held her garbage bags, filled with all her worldly belongings, and stood at the front doors of the Child Services building, squinting her eyes in the bright sunlight. She looked right at the sun, trying to predict the time from its position in the sky. Needless to say, Darcy couldn't tell if it was before or after 12 O'clock in the first place, let alone a definitive hour.

Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan had left her at the front door, stating that he was going to get his car and for Darcy to wait there, at the front door. Where was he? Did he abandon her?

Darcy started sweating, though it was nice outside at 75 degrees, with a cool breeze, but she knew what was happening. It had happened before. But yet, she didn't actually _know_ what was happening. Darcy felt so hot, so, so hot. She felt like she had burst into flames. Where was she, again? How long had she been standing here?

In front of her, a big sedan pulled up, somebody getting out, but she didn't know who. Her throat closed, Darcy felt like she was choking. She was choking on nothing. Her hands shook violently as she held her bags in hand, dropping the bags as she held her hands to her forehead. She was so hot. She was so dizzy. Where was she? She felt detached, she was in another world. How long had she been outside?

"Darcy? Darcy?" A male voice asked. Where was the voice coming from?

"Miss St. Vincent?" A soft, womanly voice asked. Where were these voices coming from?

She felt herself sit down on the warm sidewalk, hands still violently shaking. She could hardly control them anymore, and she still felt like she was choking. Her heart was going so fast, how could it go so fast? Darcy could've sworn it'd even skipped beats a couple of times. What was happening?

Finally, she seemed to be coming back to her senses. How long has this been going on? What was going on? Opening her eyes, she looked up to see her new foster parent, Agent Booth, looking concerned and kneeling in front of her, while his partner, Dr. Brennan, kneeled beside her and said, "Miss St. Vincent, do you know what just happened?"

Darcy shook her head no, looking around. Her bags still sat beside her, seemingly forgotten, abandoned. She could sympathize.

Darcy could sympathize with her bags, how abandoned they probably felt.

_ *A definition inside her head*  
Abandon: verb. To leave completely and finally; forsake utterly; desert._

_ "Yeah, I'm utterly forsaken, all right," _Darcy thought as she turned her attention to Dr. Brennan.

"Dr. Brennan, what happened to me?" Darcy asked, feeling so confused, so out-of-touch, as if waking up from a deep sleep. She felt like Sleeping Beauty. _"Rip Van Winkle, more like,"_ she thought, recalling the fairy tale from her childhood about the man who slept for twenty years.

"I think you had a panic attack," Dr. Brennan said bluntly, not bothering to sugar-coat her words, like Darcy was so used to hearing. All those social workers, all those people inside the child services building, they sugar-coated everything. It was nice to hear someone who wasn't afraid to speak her mind – or the truth for that matter – and know that she could criticized for it, yet do it, anyway.

"A panic attack?" Agent Booth cut in, taking off his sunglasses that reminded Darcy of the street cops she saw at her old home; the police were always called quite often where she had lived last.

"Why would she have a panic attack?" he asked. The question reminded Darcy of something Andrea would say, but, instead of sounding sarcastic and uncaring, Agent Booth sounded concerned and a little confused, like he _actually_ wanted to know why Darcy had gotten a panic attack.

"There could be a lot of different reasons," Dr. Brennan stated, sounding worldly and wise.

"I'm not sure," Darcy spoke up. "Why I had the panic attack, I mean. I was just standing here, wondering when you'd get here. For a minute…" she trailed off, chuckling.

"What?" Agent Booth asked, like he _actually_ wanted to know.

Though Darcy didn't find it funny, she forced herself to laugh, anyway, and say, "For a minute, I thought you two had abandoned me!" She then continued pretend-laughing for a moment before standing up to get her bags.

Before she could get to them, though, Agent Booth beat her to them and grabbed them just as she took a swipe, giving her a small smile and saying, "Go ahead and get in the car, Darcy. I'll get your bags for you."

Darcy nodded and said, "Thank You," before opening the back door to the sedan and jumping in, admiring the cool leather seats and nice interior that still smelled a little bit like new car, with hints of leather but mostly a nice, musky cologne mixed with the sweet smell of perfume.

It was such a nice smell.

Darcy stared out the window of the sedan as Agent Booth drove through the busy streets of DC, Dr. Brennan quietly typing, frantically, on her laptop, a look on her face that reminded Darcy of when her brother-never mind. Taking her mind off the person who wasn't around anymore, she people-watched out the window. She wondered how many people were connected, how many people outside of the tinted window had families at home, friends at work, acquaintances on the subway.

_ *A definition inside her head*  
Connection: noun. The act or state of connecting; association; relationship._

"So, Miss St. Vincent, how old are you? What grade are you in?" Agent Booth asked, tilting his head back in a strange attempt to address Darcy while keeping his eyes on the road. To him and Darcy, and maybe even Dr. Brennan, they'd know why his head was in such a strange position, but to an outsider, Agent Booth was strange. To someone we knew, but didn't really know, a person, who knew another person, who knew another, creating a big web of people who knew each other. To everyone else in the world, all 7+ billion humans, Agent Booth was a weirdo. _He_ was the outsider.

"I'm sixteen, Agent Booth; I'm a junior in high school. And, please, Agent Booth, call me Darcy," Darcy said quietly. Darcy didn't speak much, usually for different reasons. At home, _he_ didn't allow talking. Neither she nor her brother- scratch that. Bottom line, Darcy didn't really speak. In some foster homes, the parents wouldn't let you talk unless you were addressed directly.

"Really? Wow, so you'll be going off to college in just a few short years," Booth said, whistling for some unknown reason.

"Yes, sir," Darcy said, then turning back around to look out the window. Before Agent Booth could ask Darcy any more questions, Dr. Brennan seemed to sense Darcy's uneasiness and distracted Agent Booth with conversation about her latest book. She was beginning to like her new foster parents.

Agent Booth continued to drive, navigating the streets of DC with an ease of someone who's lived there a long time. He knew his way, almost as well as Darcy did. But he didn't have the same landmarks she did. Agent Booth started driving through the part of town filled with nice, stately townhouses. The beautiful part of town, the one people liked to look at. People liked the outsides.

Everyone likes the outsides. The outsides are what everyone likes to see. They cover up the insides, the ugly things that happen. Darcy recognized the gardens, the cars on the street. There was Old Man Jernigan's house; he was really nice, especially to Darcy. He always gave the neighborhood children candy when they came to visit him. He now sat on his front steps, drinking a Pepsi and reading an old, worn copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ that was one of his most prized possessions.

And right there, four doors down from Old Man Jernigan, was Mr. and Mrs. Sweets, who were very sweet and never particularly mean to anyone, not even each other. And that means that on the other side of the road was…it's not hers anymore. From the name on the door, that beautiful brownstone with the flowers on each windowsill belonged to the Cox family. No longer the St. Vincents. The St. Vincents haven't inhabited that house in 4 years.

Darcy quickly looked away when she saw the Cox family, the parents sitting on the steps, their children playing jump-rope on the sidewalk. Darcy could see the old ghosts there, lurking behind the lacy curtains. All the memories, the ghosts of her past, sat right in that house. She could've sworn she saw a younger version of herself, a 5-year-old Darcy, peeking from behind the window in the attic.

Darcy was startled out of her thoughts when she heard the bright chirping of a cell phone. Tearing her eyes away from her old friends all hanging out outside, she looked at Agent Booth, who had answered with just a simple, "Booth."

He sat silently, soundlessly, for a moment, before hanging up suddenly. Agent Booth could hang up without answering whoever it was that had called him? He must be important to be allowed to be so impolite. Agent Booth then turned his head back towards Darcy and said, "Darcy...we have to take a detour."

"Pardon?" Darcy asked, leaning forward in between the front seats. What kind of detour? Where were they going? They weren't going to leave her somewhere, were they?

"Darcy, Bones and I solve murders, and we just got a new case," he said, sighing deeply, as if he didn't want to work. Darcy wondered if it was because she was there. Did 'taking a detour' mean that someone was murdered, and he had to go investigate it? Another person gone? Another life taken? Could people really act like the human life they took wasn't worth something?

"So...you have to go into work?" she asked, cocking her head at him as she shook away the ranting, rhetorical questions that had started looming in her mind. He suddenly looked uncomfortable; the look on his face telling Darcy that he was trying to form an answer. She kept her eyes on him, though, fascinated by the way his face changed with thoughts of how he could tell Darcy about his career.

"Not exactly...I have to go to a crime scene," he answered, finally just deciding on the easiest answer to use without being too graphic. Darcy couldn't stand graphic imagery. Well, the kind that made her feel like she was going to throw up. How can people stand seeing those images in their heads? Don't they get sick, like Darcy? Or are their minds so twisted, that they don't feel squeamish about the fact that they hear, in detail, what a dead body looks like, or how it smells, or even how they died.

"Oh, okay," Darcy said, taking it all in. He had to see those bodies, that graphic imagery for real, in front of his face? How was he still normal, still functioning? Hasn't seeing what he has, seeing what used to be humans, but then lay unrecognizable masses, scarred him, even just a little? It's had to have. If he wasn't scarred, don't those images stay with him? That's the problem about things like that. Things like dead bodies, the images of them that you see, they stay with you. Darcy knew that from experience.

_*A definition inside her head*  
Experience: noun. A particular instance of encountering or undergoing something; verb: to meet; undergo; feel._

"Is it...sad?" Darcy suddenly asked out of curiosity, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them, like rain falling from the clouds. They seemed to have a mind of their own. They danced out of her mouth, shimmering in the air, before disappearing with her next breath. "_The words are out now,"_ she thought, internally chastising herself at the bluntness of her question. _"What you didn't think about, Darcy,"_ she thought, _"Was the fact that he might not like to talk about that kind of thing."_

"What, investigating murders?" Booth asked, coming to a stoplight and turning halfway in his seat, looking at Darcy, right in the eyes. Direct. Good, people always avoided her eyes, especially when delivering bad news. _He never looked in the eyes._

"No, Agent Booth, looking at the dead bodies and...knowing that they used to be human, like you and me. That they had family, friends, lived day to day like we did," Darcy stated, stopping herself from going into a full-on rant. She wanted to scream, scream for all those dead, all those murdered, all those whose murderers lived on, acting as if they did nothing wrong, while their victims couldn't get help like the living could.

"Actually, yes, but...you get used to it," he said, turning back around just in time for the light to turn green. He pressed on the gas, maybe a little too hard, the car lurching forward just a little bit before Agent Booth released a bit of the pressure, slowing the car just a little to a more reasonable speed.

"It is hard, though, Darcy," Dr. Brennan cut in, looking up from her laptop. "That's why I do what I do. To find the truth." That one statement made Darcy's day. That this woman, a woman born just a normal person, just like you or I, who worked so hard her entire life to speak for those who could no longer speak. She gave them last words by finding their killers and bringing them to justice.

Darcy nodded, going back to watching out the window. There was her old middle school, where her entire life changed in her last year there. She walked into that school a normal pre-teen sixth grader, and came out an entirely changed person. Darcy remembered her Middle School years with much clarity, much more than her Primary years.

She recalled her first year at that school, how she was so innocent. She had never worn any bit of makeup before, had never said a bad word. Had never made anything under a B. By the time she made it to seventh grade, though, her entire demeanor changed. Halfway through seventh grade was when she finally told someone her deepest, darkest secret. He was Darcy's best friend at the time, still is, actually. Dakota Vick tried to keep in touch with Darcy, but some foster homes didn't allow Darcy to talk on the phone, or access to the internet. Now, Darcy was grateful for a letter coming through to her.

Darcy spent the remainder of the car ride in silence, reflecting on the past few years. So much has happened, so much Darcy normally blocked out. She wanted, so, so badly, to let it all flood back, but bringing the memories back risked another panic attack, or, even worse, a mental breakdown in the big, strong car that made Darcy feel safe.

They pulled up to the site near a truck stop, the flashing blue lights making Darcy's' head spin. It was a bit like accidents on the side of the freeway; you don't want to look, but you cannot tear your eyes away.

Darcy stayed in the backseat, occupying herself by playing with her school tie as she watched Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan leave the car and go towards the newly-found body, and Darcy allowed herself to snicker as she realized that the body was in an _outhouse._ She then stopped herself when she realized that she was laughing at someone's' _murder._

_"You sick fool," _she thought to herself as she lay down onto the seat, wanting to sleep. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the incomprehensible voices outside of the window. A horrible odor wafted through the air conditioning, making Darcy cringe at the undelightful smell. She pulled off her school blazer and used it as a pillow, using the sleeve to cover her nose. She suddenly realized how exhausted she was after a sleepless night and a stressful morning.

She kept the sleeve clamped to her nose, turning up the radio so it played softly as she finally drifted off.

Darcy awoke with a gasp, breathing heavily before looking around. She was in somebody's office, sideways in a chair because there were no couches. She was alone, but the door was open. Sighing, Darcy stood and brushed imaginary lint off her uniform, looking at her office was nice, not exactly homey, but...comfortable. Looking out the door, she saw an empty bullpen, everyone having abandoned their posts once six o'clock struck.

_"Whose office am I in?"_ Darcy thought as she spied a nameplate that read _Special Agent Seeley Booth._ Darcy released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, before realizing that she was in the office of someone she trusted, even just a little. _"I can't believe Andrea made me miss school!"_ she thought angrily, knowing that if she missed too much school she wouldn't be allowed to move on to her senior year.

Darcy was still standing in the middle of the office when someone walked in, stopping when the spotted her. She turned and saw that it was a young man, one that seemed strangely familiar, and stopped, looking at him, cocking her head to the side.

"Um, hello," the young man said, stopping in the doorway. "Where's Agent Booth?"

Darcy shrugged before she stopped herself, internally slapping herself for just shrugging.

"Um, who are you?" the man asked.

"Darcy," she said quietly, looking away and playing with her brown hair. What was with this man, making her act so juvenile? The manners that had been ingrained in her were suddenly forgotten in the presence of someone who looked so very eerily familiar!

"Pardon? I couldn't hear you," he said, smiling pleasantly.

"My name is Darcy," she said louder, lifting her head and closing her eyes, in her head going to The Dark Place, a place for just her and her definitions.

_*A definition inside her head*_

_Darkness:noun. The state or quality of being dark; abscence or deficiency of light; wickedness or evil; obscurity; concealment; lack of knowledge or enlightenment._

_"Just stay in your Dark Place, Darcy, stay as long as you can," _she thought, breathing heavier as she struggled with staying in The Dark Place.

"Um, Darcy, are you alright?" the man asked, concern weaved in his voice.

Darcy opened her eyes and looked at the man, before asking, "Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Lance Sweets, I'm an FBI psychologist and criminal profiler," he said, a little uncomfortable under her gaze, her brown eyes boring into his own. Her eyes were strangely familiar, and Lance couldn't place his finger on how. He then realized how pretty she was, in a girl-next-door kind of cute. He couldn't help but notice her lips, so thick that Lance wouldn't be surprised if they stayed permanently parted, as they were now.

Clearing his throat, Lance asked "What are you doing in Agent Booth's office?"

Darcy shrugged and said, "I just woke up here," as if that was a normal thing to just wake up in somebody's office.

Lance nodded and said, "Excuse me, for a sec." As he walked out of the office and into the almost empty bullpen, he dialed Booth's number and willed him to answer the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

Agent Booth's phone rang, tearing him away from his lunch. Looking at the caller ID, he saw _Baby Shrink calling_ displayed on his screen. Rolling his eyes, he answered with a "Booth."

"Hi Agent Booth, there's a uh...person in your office."

"Who is it?" Booth asked, though he was sure Sweets was speaking about Darcy.

"Someone by the name of Darcy, I walked into your office and she was just standing there. Is she part of your current case?" Sweets asked curiously, though he knew he was being nosey.

"No, Sweets, she's my foster kid," Booth answered.

"Seriously, Agent Booth, remember what I told you about sarcasm..." Sweets lectured, not realized that Booth wasn't using sarcasm in his previous statement.

"I'm not being sarcastic, Sweets. Darcy is my foster kid."

"You're a foster parent?" Sweets asked, surprised by the suddenness of the situation.

"Yeah."

"What's Darcy's last name, if you don't mind me asking?" Sweets asked, feeling like he's met her somewhere before. Maybe he treated her? Or maybe she had been in front of him at Starbucks?

"St. Vincent, why?"

"No reason. I have to go," Sweets said hurriedly as he realized where he had recognized Darcy from.

That night, Booth and Darcy sat on his couch, catching the Flyers game and munching on popcorn that had way too much butter.

"Agent Booth, I, um, met Dr. Sweets today. Is he always so...nervous?" Darcy asked quietly, but Agent Booth heard her anyway.

"Please, Darcy, just call me Booth," he answered, holding up a hand.

"Okay, um, Booth," Darcy answered, feeling a bit awkward.

_*A definition inside her head*_

_Awkward: adjective, causing difficulty; hard to do or deal with; causing or feeling embarrassment or inconvenience; not smooth of graceful; ungainly; uncomfortable or abnormal._

"_I am awkward," _Darcy thought, taking a small handful of popcorn. _"That's just me."_

"And no, he's not usually like that," Booth said, scaring Darcy out of her private thoughts.

"Huh?" she asked, realizing that she'd been zoning out.

"Dr. Sweets. He's not usually nervous," Booth repeated, giving Darcy a sideways look.

"Oh, okay," Darcy answered, embarrassed that Booth caught her when she wasn't paying attention. It wasn't polite, and she usually only did it when no one was around. "I'm going to go to bed," she said, standing.

"It's only 8:30," Booth said, turning around to look at her.

"Yes, it is," she agreed, looking at her simple leather watch that Dakota had given her for her birthday. "But I need to take a shower."

"Oh, do you need me to...show you how...turning on the...you know what I mean, right?" Booth asked, and Darcy realized that he felt just as awkward as she did.

"No, I don't think so, but thank you, Booth," she said, giving a small smile before walking into the bathroom.

Booth sighed and turned back to the game, wondering what Darcy was hiding.

Darcy stood under the warm water, enjoying the feel of the water pounding her back. It was like the rain, but rain was cold and erratic, unlike the hot, steaming, continuous spouting of water that was relaxing Darcy much more than any medicine she'd ever taken.

She thought back to the man in the living room, this man who treated her much better than any other foster parent she'd ever had. Hell, he treated her better than her own father did. This man seemed warm, he seemed like a good person, a person who was impossible to dislike. He was just like...a lot like Christian.

Just thinking about his name made Darcy tear up, but she knew that crying meant questions from Agent Booth.

"_Do I want him to ask questions?" _she thought. She stood in the shower, hunched, not moving, trying to think of an answer.

"_Yes and no,"_ is the answer she came up with, an answer that was fail-safe. Yes, because asking questions could lead to finding him, but...did she want to find him? Could finding him solve all the unanswered questions? Could finding him give Darcy some closure? Or would it just lead to more pain and more medication and more emptiness inside of her head?

Shaking her head, she grabbed the shampoo bottle and banned all thoughts of her past life from her mind.

The next morning, Booth peeked his head inside of his spare room, the one he had arranged for Darcy, and his eyes were greeted by the comical sight of Darcy, face down in the pillow, one arm above her head, the other under the pillow. The covers were halfway kicked off, a leg hanging off the side and the other tangled with the sheets.

Not having the heart to wake her up, he wrote her a note and placed it on his counter, trusting her to stay home alone that day while he was working.

Darcy groaned as the sunlight in her face became unbearable, and she contemplated just closing the blinds and going back to sleep.

Wait! It's daylight! Was Booth awake? Did he forget to set an alarm? What if he gets in trouble for being late?

Jumping out of bed, she rushed into his room, knocking on one of the french doors, and, when she didn't recieve an answer, burst in, finding his bed empty and quite messed up. Walking back into the kitchen, she snorted when she found a note on the counter.

_Darcy,_ it read, _Thought I'd let you sleep in and spend the day here. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the apartment. I'll see you in a while._

_-Booth._

Darcy smiled and walked farther into the kitchen, searching the shelves for breakfast. Upon opening the third or fourth cabinet, she found cereal, pulling down the box and searching for a bowl.

Looking around, she noticed that the apartment was a bit...messy.

She sat down on the couch and ate her cereal as she watched _Good Morning America,_ making a list of what to do.

Placing her bowl in the sink, she started in her room, unpacking her bags and decided to do a load of laundry, then wondered if Booth had any dirty clothes she needed to wash. She was tempted to call him, but decided not to.

She searched around for a vacuum, but not finding one, settled for beating the rugs on the balcony.

When Booth came home for lunch, he saw her scurrying around, basket of folded clothes on her hip, music blaring from his stereo. He smiled at the sight, and stood in the doorway as Darcy came back into the living room, giving a little scream when she saw Agent Booth.

"Agent Booth, I didn't know you'd be home for lunch!" she screamed over the music. He smiled and she turned it off, standing in the living room as he surveyed his apartment.

"I uh...decided to go to the diner, but I wanted to see if you'd like to join me," he answered, looking around. His apartment wasn't just clean, it was CLEAN. "What's...all this?" he asked, gesturing around with his hand.

"What? You don't like it? Did I do something wrong?" she asked, worried that he didn't like the way she cleaned.

"No, it's great, but you didn't have to do it," he said, approaching the girl.

"No, I uh, wanted to..." she trailed off, looking around at her handiwork.

"Well, thank you," he said, giving a nervous laugh. This girl made him nervous. From day one, he worried her.

From having a panic attack to freaking Sweets out, he realized that there was more to this girl than what meets the eye.

She nodded and he motioned for the door, and though he didn't say a word, she knew what he meant by the gesture. She grabbed her coat and went for the door, Booth following behind.

The two sat inside the Royal Diner, him eating a classic burger, she was poking at her salad.

Yesterday's panic attack was niggling at Booth's mind, wondering what caused it. He studied Darcy, realizing that she had been studying him. They sat there, staring at each other for a while, before he said, "Do you have panic attacks often?"

"Where did that come from?" she asked quietly, taking a stab at the lettuce with her fork.

"I was thinking about how much you worried me yesterday."

"I worried you?" she asked, her head snapping up. "I'm sorry, I never meant to..."

He waved his hand in dismissal, before asking, "Do they happen often?"

She nodded, taking a bite of crouton and baked chicken.

Booth sat back and thought about it for a moment, before asking another question. "Do you think you could have panic disorder?"

She shrugged and took a sip of water, not meeting his eyes.

"Would you like to find out?" he asked again, hoping for her to say something.

She stared at him for a moment, before asking slowly, "You'd do that for me?"

"Of course," he answered, his tone suggesting that it was obvious.

She had a strange look on her face, before it broke into a big, sincere smile, devoid of any pain. It was a smile he didn't think he'd seen on her before, but it suited her.

"Thank you," she answered, signaling the end of that conversation, but kept the smile on her face.


	3. Chapter 3

Booth opened the door for Darcy, letting them exit the Royal Diner and onto the sidewalk, squinting in the sudden sunlight. Booth noticed that sunlight seemed to bounce off of Darcy's hair, and he wondered how someone could have hair _that_ shiny.

"_Bones has hair that shines in the sun,"_ he thought, smiling at the thought of his Bones, currently at the lab with the other Squints.

Coming back to his senses, he led Darcy down the busy street, one hand on her back, guiding her towards his car. He recalled how she had fallen asleep in it yesterday while they were at the crime scene. He and Bones had gotten back into the car, ready to go back to DC, and found the A/C cut off, the radio softly playing, and Darcy asleep in the backseat, using her school blazer as a pillow.

Realizing that today was a Tuesday, he asked, "Did you miss school today?"

Darcy nodded and looked up at him when he then asked, "Are you going to be in trouble?"

She shook her head and answered, "Just write a note and say I was sick."

He nodded as they climbed into his car, the silence not at all awkward, just...comfortable.

They walked into the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building, going up the elevator filled with people loading and unloading at each floor. Once they got to the fifth floor, Booth led her through a bullpen and into his office, motioning for her to sit in one of the chairs. She sat quietly as he checked his messages, and she smiled at the concentrated look on his face. She quickly wiped the smile from her face as he looked up and said, "I have to go to the lab. Do you want to come with me, or would you like to go ahead and see Dr. Sweets?"

She sat for a moment and thought about it before answering, "I'll see Dr. Sweets, if he's available."

Booth nodded and stood, motioning for Darcy to follow him again. He realized that her hands slightly shook, as if she was a little bit nervous.

"Are you nervous, Darcy?"

She nodded quietly, casting her eyes down to the floor.

"It's okay; I used to be nervous, too."

"Really?" she asked, her head snapping up and her eyes meeting his. She met his eyes! She was giving him eye contact that wasn't forced! Booth would've jumped with joy if he didn't have any self-control.

"Well, yeah, he was threatening to split me and Bones up."

Darcy nodded and looking around as she walked, before asking "Why do you call Dr. Brennan 'Bones?'"

"It's a nickname i gave her when we worked our very first case. She was always _so_ concentrated on the bones of the victim, that I gave her the nickname 'Bones.'"

"And she was okay with that?"

"Not at first. She eventually got used to it. I think that secretly she likes it," he answered, looking back at her and smiling, wiggling his eyebrows. Darcy laughed quietly as they approached the young psychologists' office, knocking on his door.

"Come in!" came the familiar voice of the young doctor.

Booth opened the door and ushered Darcy inside before walking in himself, standing beside her and keeping a calming hand on her back.

"Sweets, I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure, Agent Booth, what can i do for you?" Sweets asked, eyes flickering back and forth between the young girl and the older man.

"Well, Sweets, we think that Darcy may have a panic disorder."

"Really?" he asked, looking inquisitively at the girl who refused to meet his eyes. "Well, uh, why don't you leave us to it and, uh, I'll call you when we're done?"

Booth turned to Darcy and raised his eyebrows, the two having a silent conversation. Darcy nodded and went to sit on the couch as Booth left, shutting the door behind him.

"Well, Miss St. Vincent, shall we start?" Sweets asked, opening his notebook.

An hour after Booth left, he got a text message from Sweets, asking him to come as soon as he could. Booth, sensing urgency in the message, rushed away from the lab and drove as fast as he could, wishing that it was an emergency so he could use his sirens.

After what felt like forever, he pulled into the parking garage, hastily locking his car and speed-walking into the building, opting to take the stairs two at a time instead of waiting on the elevator.

He hated to admit it, but Darcy was beginning to change him. He would've been acting like this if it were Parker, or his Bones, or if they were going to save the next victim of a serial killer, but a stranger living in his apartment?

Technically, Darcy wasn't a stranger, she was an unfortunate sixteen-year-old in the foster system, but he didn't know this girl.

His thoughts returned to Darcy's social worker, calling some of the foster kids "delinquents."

Was Darcy a criminal? How would he know if he didn't find out? He made a mental note to run a background check on Darcy, maybe use her file from the system to find out who her family was, do a background check on them, too. Why was someone so sweet so...nervous? What even made her nervous?

Finally coming to Sweets' office, he knocked on the door and came inside.

Sitting on the couch was Darcy, across from her was Sweets.

"Agent Booth, we've been waiting for you. I have something I need to tell you."

"Yeah?"

"Darcy does, in fact, have Panic and Anxiety Disorder. The two kind of go hand-in-hand, actually, but your suspicions were correct."

"Do you know what caused it?"

"No, since Darcy was here of her own free will, I can't force her to say anything, but I'm pretty sure that she knows," Sweets answered, watching Darcy. Was she going to give some answers? She looked out the window, pretending not to listen.

Was Darcy hiding something?


	4. Chapter 4

Sweets looked at Booth and explained. "Darcy was fine when answering my questions about her symptoms and triggers, just a bit nervous, like she was when you dropped her off. But when I started asking questions about her life before foster care, she stopped talking. Darcy's refusing to talk about it."

Booth nodded, never taking his eyes off Darcy, leaned in front of her, willing her to meet his eyes. She quickly glanced at him before looking away, pretending that she couldn't see him. But Booth knew better. Why was Darcy acting so strange? What was she hiding from the world? Had she seen something, heard something, witnessed something, done something? Had something happened to her?

"Darcy, do you want to go home?" Booth asked. Darcy nodded, quickly standing and leaving the room before Sweets could say anything.

Booth looked at Sweets and asked, "What did you say to her?"

Sweets shook his head. Patient confidentiality. Booth huffed and followed his foster daughter, ready to get down to the bottom of this.

Walking into his office, he saw Darcy sitting in a chair, waiting for him. He closed his door and sat down at his desk, calmly folding his hands and watching Darcy. She watched him, the two lost souls watching each other in the glass office.

No one knows for sure how long they stared at each or her. Booth said it felt like only a moment, while Darcy swears to this day that it felt like an eternity.

Booth was the first that spoke. "Darcy...what happened to you?"

Darcy sat for a moment before answering, "I can't tell you."

"Why not? You know you can trust me."

"This isn't about trust, Booth. It's about secrets.

"What kinds of secrets?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret. Booth, I'm not allowed to tell you," she answered, before closing her mouth and looking out the window, never uttering a single noise until it was time to go home.

Darcy wanted to beat herself up. Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan and Dr. Sweets only wanted to help, they weren't going to hurt her, and they weren't going to betray her, mock her, and hate her. So why was she so keen on keeping her fathers' secrets? What did she have to lose?

Standing in the middle of the bathroom mirror, she watched herself in the mirror. Making her decision, she lunged toward the door, ready to tell Agent Booth what her father did and let her ghosts go.

But something stopped Darcy from leaving that bathroom. Christians' memory kept her from leaving the bathroom.

Turning on the shower, Darcy stripped off her clothes and prepared herself for another boring day at school tomorrow.

Booth sat on his laptop, typing with his two pointer fingers. He'd never learned how to properly type. He thought taking a typing class stupid back then, but now he wished he had taken that class in school.

On the FBI Database, he typed in his password to sign in before looking up "Darcy St. Vincent." Clicking on the first result, he read her profile.

Name: Darcy Danielle St. Vincent  
DOB: 1/10/1993, 16 Years  
Parents: Steven St. Vincent  
Danielle St. Vincent (Deceased)  
Siblings: Christian St. Vincent (Deceased)  
Notes: Christian & Darcy are fraternal twins. EDIT: 4th April 2004- Father unfit to care for minor. Minor is being placed into foster care, effective immediately.

"Darcy had a twin brother? How did he and her mother die?" he muttered, squinting at the screen.

"The official report is a car accident. Why are you looking me up, Agent Booth?" Darcy answered, making Booth jump when she spoke; he hadn't heard her come in. Typing in the name "Christian St. Vincent," Booth pulled up the unofficial record they have in the system.

"Christian Steven St. Vincent…born January 10th, 1993…died 27th March 2004. Cause of death: car accident; severe trauma to the skull," Booth read out loud. He compared the picture of the-then 12 year old Christian to the 16 year old Darcy. They had the same light brown hair, same brown eyes, and the same bow-shaped lips, but that was where the similarities ended. Darcy's twin had had a square jaw (even at age 12) and ski-sloped nose, while Darcy herself had high cheekbones and a straight, long nose and dramatically curved eyebrows.

"Agent Booth…please stop what you are doing?" Darcy asked, tearing up as she stood from the couch, going into her new room and closing the door.

Sitting on her bed, Darcy looked out the window and watched the moon.

"I'm sorry, Christian. I'm so sorry…" Darcy quietly cried, clinging to the only picture she had of him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning kiddies! Strong language ahead!**

Agent Booth listened to the soft cries coming from Darcy's room. Cries that he had caused. She was crying over her dead brother, one who had supposedly died in a car crash. An accidental car crash, it said. That's what it said on Darcy's file, on Christian's file. Clicking on the search box, Booth typed in "Steven St. Vincent." Clicking on the first result, an extensive file pulled up on the man Darcy called her father.

Name: Steven James St. Vincent, Jr.  
DOB: 4/30/1970  
Parents: Steven James St. Vincent, Sr. (Deceased)  
Molly Cooper St. Vincent (Deceased)  
Siblings: N/A  
Notes: 4th April 2004 - Unfit to care for child. Child is to be placed into foster care, effective immediately.

Underneath all the normal information, though, was a rap sheet. Reports of reckless driving, a few DUI's, negligence charges, and a child abuse charge. He was currently imprisoned, and would be for quite a while. Calling the prison in which Steven St. Vincent was incarcerated, he made the decision to go see him tomorrow.

Knocking on Darcy's door, he went to turn the handle to find it locked.

"Darcy…will you let me in?" Agent Booth asked quietly.

The door slowly opened a crack, chocolate brown eyes peeking up at him, and Agent Booth took a step back, wanting to give the poor soul her space. After a minute of staring, she opened the door and walked away, leaving it opened behind her as she sat on her bed. Booth came in, sitting down across from her. They both looked at each other before Booth spoke.

"The car accident wasn't an accident, was it?" Booth asked quietly, not meeting her eyes.

"No."

"Who was driving?"

"Steven," Darcy answered. She did not call her father "dad," nor "daddy," "papa," or even "father." She called him by his given name.

"What happened?"

"He was angry. He was always angry. I never saw him smile. Mom had told him to pull over because he was swerving all over the road. He was drunk. He got mad. Said that he hates her, that he didn't want any fucking children. That he doesn't want me and Christian."

"What happened next, Darcy?" Booth asked quietly, scooting closer and trying to make eye contact.

Darcy turned, picking up her picture of Christian.

"Darcy…if Danielle and Christian's deaths weren't an accident, you need to tell me.

"Mom said that if he didn't want us, he didn't have to have us. Said she was moving out, that she was divorcing him. Next thing I know, he's screaming. She's not leaving him. There's another man, isn't there. She's fucking someone else. He slapped her. He always slapped her. Me and Christian, too. Then he sped up, really fast. Next thing I knew, we were flying through the air. He screamed for us to die. But I didn't."

"Darcy…" Booth started. "If I pursue this case, your father can go to jail for life. That's murder."

Darcy just nodded before Booth looked at the clock.

"Tomorrow is Saturday. How about chocolate chip pancakes in the morning?" Booth asked, wanting to cheer her up.

"Okay," Darcy answered quietly, wanting to be alone now.

**Thoughts? Objections? Do you like where this is going?**


End file.
